Bark

 I’d like to write that the bark that I see strewn about the bases of so many trees in Golden Gate Park recently look as if they have dropped away gently because they were no longer needed. Instead, I would be more honest if I said that they seem to have fallen away out of exhaustion.
   I know from my own experience that it is absolutely exhausting to feel it necessary to protect what lies beneath the surface, and I would imagine the same would go for all of those trees. The bark, though still beautiful in those reds, tans and browns, look tired and parched, even after the sun shines on them after a good rain or fog. Perhaps they could have done nothing else, sacrificed by the rest of the tree.
   I feel a little badly that I have the luxury of writing about their worn appearance when they do not seem to have the same right or ability to write about mine. I suppose that it's better done, however it is, than to pretend it does not exist.

Strange and scary world

   Two days ago, I took a drive from my hotel in Arcata, California to Fern Canyon, located about an hour away in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. Most of the drive was on the easy-to-maneuver and beautiful Redwood Highway. The last six miles, however, consisted of a slow, winding descent on a rough and dark unpaved road.
   Being a person that enjoys the mornings and relishes a world that is quiet, I left my hotel early, arriving at Davison Road (the road leading to the canyon) when it was still a bit dark and overcast. Most of the available light seemed to be blocked by the Redwoods nearby, and the dust kicked up by my tires created an environment that I found eerie and difficult to apprehend.
   Although I generally don't think much about the headlights on my car (other than whether I need them on or not), there have been occasions when they have revealed things in especially beautiful ways.. They do not seem to do this for illuminating especially well, but for what they hint at as they fade at the peripheries.
   I recall vividly the feeling of driving one night on Highway 62 in the California desert, and became disoriented by the plants just slightly visible to me on the side of the road. I felt nearly weightless, frightened, and dizzy as I barreled down that road. I didn't feel comfortable pulling over to the side, because the shoulder, if there was one, was equally difficult to decipher. The only instance when I can recall feeling unsettled in that way was when I had used LSD.
   I had a somewhat similar sensation as I drove slowly down to the canyon, the sound of loose rocks under my tires. The dirt obscured my view and covered the ferns on both sides of me. As I turned the wheel to navigate the sometimes winding road, my headlights would shine on those plants in a way that made them unrecognizable to me as things I knew existed.
   It is one thing to have had no previous exposure to a thing; another to lack the sense of it being possible.
   I feel the need to add here, after thinking more about this experience for the past two days, that my fear of getting a flat tire on those rocks, and lacking the confidence to change it correctly, must have certainly colored how I observed the environment that day. Knowing that I had no cellular service most certainly heightened it.
   After having reached my destination, I maneuvered my body around the canyon floor a while, then started the drive back up. By this time, there was more light, and the powdery coating on the ferns just looked like dust covering plants. I could see them for what they were now, and they were recognizable as such. Less easy was to understand how they could have appeared so alien to me just an hour earlier.

Chance?

   I saw this feather, exactly as you see it below, while I was walking in the park a few days ago. When I first passed it, I imagined that someone had placed it in the ground upright, quite intentionally, as a kind of marker. I thought that perhaps it was there indicating the grave site of a pigeon or squirrel, but after inspecting it closely, I noticed that there were other feathers nearby, strewn about in a way that appeared haphazard. This information forced me to reconsider my original reading.

   I realized that how I now viewed the scene, based on different, perhaps only more information, altered my previous reading a lot. I began to think a bit more about my convictions on the whole, and how much weight I should be giving them at any particular time. It became apparent that I would never have enough information about anything to really judge it correctly. This seemed to include my own life.

   Although that feather's placement in the grass and earth had seemed too intentional to have come from pure chance, perhaps it is my own sense of what is probable should be examined more closely.

What are the chances?

Threat of interest?

   A few days ago during my morning walk I saw a group of animals in the distance that I don't normally see in such close proximity. There were two Canada geese, their goslings, and three adult Muscovy ducks, apparently huddled together in harmony. I soon understood that there was not the peaceful coexistence that I had envisioned.
   Drawing closer, I saw that one of the ducks was in fact very close to one of the goslings, upsetting one of the adult geese greatly. The goose hissed loudly and repeatedly, but did not intervene in a more direct, physical way. Still, the duck kept approaching, seemingly unfazed, uncaring or unaware of what I assume was one of the parent's distress.
   I was standing perhaps ten to fifteen feet from the commotion when I saw what I thought was the duck touching the young animal with its' beak. I figured at that moment that it would kill it for sure.
   I feel it is important to add here that although I found the scene upsetting to witness, I never once thought about interfering. I still find something wonderful and beautiful in even these emotionally charged and potentially sad animal interactions.
   Anyway, with all that honking and shrieking accompanying, the duck made contact with the gosling, but then started to walk away. Of course, it is possible that it had wanted to attack it, but had for some reason decided otherwise, but to me it seemed that it must have just been inquisitive. Perhaps it wanted a closer look.
   Although the entire happening was quite short and had unfolded in a somewhat deliberate way (these Muscovy ducks move quite slowly when walking, waddling from side-to-side as they do), there was nothing that would have suggested to me that it would come to the ending that it had.
   As I continued walking, I thought about what I had seen, and how I had been so wrong in how I had foreseen it ending. I imagined then, as I do now, that there must be so many things that I must also think about in ways that don't account for the seemingly endless viewpoints and particulars that I know nothing about.

Blurred flowers

   There is something that I often find very special about the tree pictured below. Although not always remarkable for me when I pass it, at times the flowers on it seem blurred, shifting my sense of vision for a moment. I like this feeling, as it reminds me that I have a choice in suspending a lot of how I organize the world. This is always a good thing.

   I think that this blurred quality is visible in the picture that I took of it, which I was sure to be very still when taking. Afterwards, I thought that perhaps I should have been moving when I took it to better illustrate the quality I am trying to describe, but as I look at it now, I think that it is there anyway.
   I remember studying the artist Paul Cezanne in art school, and it was told to us students in one class that he, and others from the time, used to drink absinthe, which was said to have hallucinogenic qualities. I recall the teacher explaining that this may have contributed to Cezanne painting trees in the way that he did, which I find similar to the flowers on the tree I have described. Below is Cezanne's example.
 

Cezanne's "Large Trees at Jas de Bouffan"

   Years ago, I believe a short time after those art school years, I remember spending time with some fellow artists, walking around Central Park in New York after having taken acid. We noticed that many of the trees in the park reminded us of Cezanne paintings. We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art later in the day and saw some of his work. It all made sense to us.

   In my current middle-aged years, I have had some naturally occuring, near- hallucinogenic experiences, some like the ones I am describing here. I find them all the more beautiful that they have happened without the use of any mind-altering substances.

   It seems to me that the ability to experience the natural world in different ways points to an openness to engage with a less restricted mind and eyes, and perhaps most importantly, to experience things how they exist. When I am able to see the world in this way, I feel like a completely included participant, even if only for that very moment.

                                       

Untangled

   I took this picture yesterday after I decided to slightly stray from where I usually walk in the morning. Interestingly to me, I pass this place almost every day in my car, reiterating to myself my belief that it is never possible to see closely while moving in a car in a car. This is even more true when I am the one driving.
   As I walked by the place seen below, the mass of thick trunks and branches immediately captured my attention. The shaded and protected area they provided looked like a wonderful place to lay down. I've always liked secluded spots in nature where I can relax and listen to the sounds around me. I especially enjoy it when I cannot tell where the sounds are coming from.
   Although I have certainly thought that my interest in these kind of spaces could easily be seen as a desire to return to a womb-like environment, I don't know that this idea is particularly alluring to me, as the one I occupied previously did not help me to feel secure outside of it.
   So, I think that rather than having a wish to return to some place, what I would like to find is a state where I can venture from from truthfully and in confidence.

Secretive

   During the past month or so I've noticed that the Mallards who live around Stow Lake have been spending time in places that I don't recall having seen them. I surmise that it must be about the time when their chicks will soon be born, but I don't recall from previous years them behaving in a way that appears secretive.

   Of course, I  may just be noticing things a bit more closely now. I  may also be viewing their behavior through my my own paranoia.

   Often, when I am rounding a corner of the usual path that I  traverse during my morning walks, I come two or more of them wandering around in the bushes and thickets near the water. If I should stop when I see them, even if only for a moment, they begin to quickly move around and call out. I imagine that there is a nest somewhere near to them, at least at some of these times, but I never see anything there.
   I would think that at least one would stay behind to protect the eggs if one were there, and I am quiet, still and stay from where I spot them. Perhaps these are the very things that they find frightening.
   I'm perplexed that these Mallards should be so concerned that a species and person such as myself should see where their eggs are hidden. It actually saddens me.

   Last year, I saw one of these animals sitting on an abandoned egg on top of a large mound of rubble completely out in the open here. It touched me, as it must have been mourning this cold specimen, but why would that egg have been laid there in the first place, so inconspicuously, while they seem so bent on hiding things now?

   It just seems like they are up to something.
   Although not a gossip, and being a person that very much values a kind of mystery, I wish that those Mallards would trust me to know their secrets, what they're doing there, in those tucked away places.
   It's not that I want to be in on their secrets. It's just to know that they see in me one that appreciates them fully as they are.
  

The perfect Christmas for me

    I really dislike the four weeks or so leading up to Christmas, and although I wish that things were different, they are not. I feel badly for having these sentiments.
   As a non-religious, but proud ethnic Jew, I tend to feel a bit slighted and unseen during December, as the winter festivity of my tradition, Channukah, seems basically invisble to those that do not in some way acknowledge it. Obviously, this is not true for Christmas, which means really nothing to me, yet I feel forced to see it everyday in the days that begin after Thanksgiving, and continue past New Year's. This includes,, unfortunately for me, wonderful Stow Lake, where I go every morning to escape busy San Francisco and focus on my own thoughts.
   During the holidays, someone or some people take it upon themselves to decorate a particular bush there as if it were a Christmas tree, and it irks me. I go there to try to clear my mind, but have found it difficult to do so as I pass those ornaments every time I complete a lap. I have tried for quite a while to find ways to not be bothered by it, but have until recently been unsuccessful.
   Then, last December, something just presented itself to me, and has continued until the present.
   It is dark this time of year when I arrive at the lake, but as I walk, at the roughly halfway point around the north side of the pedestrian path, I am treated to something wonderful; I can see, faintly in the distance, the red, white, yellow and green lights of the cars and traffic lights on busy 19th avenue. From far away, they look to me like holiday lights.
   The quality of those colors remind me of when I squint my eyes to see something in a different way. Sometimes, a lack of visual clarity can help to reorient me differently. It can soften, or rather blur out the things which I find displeasing or unpleasurable.
   Those colors in the darkness, blurred by the distance and my human eyes, are a gift which helps me to see December differently. Unlike Christmas, they will be on display as long as I am willing to venture out into the darkness.

Moon's walk

   I can't remember the last time I began my morning walk in Golden Gate Park when it was light outside. Suffice it to say, it's been a while.

   At this time of year, it usually takes at least forty five minutes before the sun even begins to illuminate this part of the world. Until then, my recognition of the people around me is primarily reliant on experience, but also on the sounds that they make.

   This morning, as I walked the western stretch of Stow Lake for the second time around, I heard the familiar steps of an elderly Asian man that walks there regularly named Moon. I knew for pretty certain that it was him from what must have been sixty or seventy feet away because of his particular gait; he drags his feet as he walks, but manages to do so in a kind of hushed way. In my observations, it is particular to him.

   Continuing on, and passing other walkers for the next few minutes, I soon approached Moon again, and decided to tell him how I had been able to recognize him by his walk earlier. Although he seemed a bit confused as to why I was telling him this information, he didn't appear upset, and even thanked me.
   I don't know why, but I felt a little bad after our encounter, wondering if I had perhaps offended him. I thought about why I had told him what I did, and even though it maybe hadn't been clear to me at the time, I realized later that I told him because I was pleased when I saw him. The sound of his footsteps made me happy.
   I thought for a moment about dogs, and how they become excited when they hear their master approaching the front door after they've been out a while. I realized that in a similar way, hearing Moon made me happy, too.

Affected by the rain

   We have been getting quite a bit of (much needed) rain recently in San Francisco. There has been so much that I actually managed to be annoyed by it a few days ago, which is unusual for me. I hadn't prepared properly for it, got quite wet, and had to go to work. I normally love it when it rains here.

   It feels like it's been a while since we've had regular and steady showers, and besides the obvious signs that there has been precipitation in my beloved Golden Gate Park (such as the shininess of the green leaves and the darkened-by-moisture soil), I've noticed some other ways that the life there has been affected.            

   For one, I have twice seen Canada geese that were absolutely soaking wet. I never recall having seen that before.

   Also, after each day's steady rain, the leaves and smaller branches from the trees seen below have lowered incrementally, apparently wilting from the weight that the moisture had added to them. The lower they sank, the more of an arch they formed, becoming a sort of gate that I looked forward to each time I neared it.

       

   As I passed through this ever-changing and narrowing entryway and exit, it was pretty impossible not to jostle the branches, no matter how low I bent. When I did, a light sprinkle would be released, though I never minded being a little wetter because of it. 

   It seemed like a minor inconvenience in relation to this wonderful thing that the rain had created for me and others to enjoy. 

    Two days ago, as I exited one side of this passage-like narrowing, a man that also walks in the park regularly commented on it, expressing annoyance for the "showering", as I believe he put it.

   For some reason, his pointing that out made me appreciate what I found beautiful in it even more.

   Walking in the park today, I noticed that I had more clearance above me than I had just recently. I didn't think much of it at the moment, but as I passed through it a second time, I realized that it had either retracted somehow, or one of the park staff had trimmed it. Maybe it was a hindrance to some park visitors.

   I had some special moments there, both in anticipation of, and walking through it. These memories are now mine to keep.

   Writing helps me to ensure this. 

Shadows, groups and gait

   There are very few people around Stow Lake, walking or doing anything, when I am there in the early morning hours. It is almost completely dark, and most of the people that are there use flashlights to. I'm guessing they use them to both see and be seen by others.

   I recently noticed as I passed a few of these individuals that they seemed to have a more difficult time recognizing me than I did them, and although I know that this is partly due to their lights (light makes it harder for me to adjust my eyes to the darkness), I think that there were other things taking place, too.
   It got me thinking about the idea of recognition.

   I began to realize how much the ways people are grouped, their gaits, and how they held or swung their flashlights in movement helped me to determine who they were from far away, in almost complete darkness. And while it's true that there are not that many people walking at the lake in that early hour, there are enough that each one's identity is not a given. 

   Thinking about the things mentioned above and how they have helped me to make determinations. I wonder about some of the many other conclusions that I have come to, and why..
   It has started to become apparent to me that many of my ideas, and the reasons behind them, might not be as deductive as the ways I am able to determine people at Stow Lake.
   If I assess people and situations based mainly on experiences from long ago, often wounds, then my contemporary observations and perceptions are probably not as clear as the people I see on these dark mornings.

Memories of the harassers

   I pass by the below shrub, bush, or whatever it is, at least three times a day during my daily walks around Stow Lake. Besides seeing it with my eyes and using my brain to disseminate that information, I hadn't given too much conscious thought about it  now.
   Located on the colder and windier side of the lake where I walk (an area I have written about in other blog posts), it wasn't until recently that I saw activity there that reminded me of some wonderful things that had happened there some time ago.
   It was then that I would regularly see a flurry of activity made by perhaps eight to ten small blackbirds, who would swoop down and attack the tops of people's heads, including mine, as we walked by this greenery.
   At first, I found these attacks a bit shocking (as you can imagine it might be if suddenly something surprisingly pecked you on the top of your head!), but then grew to  appreciate the way these animals protected what I imagine must have been their chicks hidden there. These birds didn't seem to claim a lot of space as their own, but the bit that they did seemed vital to them. I found this thought beautiful, though I don't understand exactly why.
   I am thinking about all of this now because these birds haven't yet returned to this area, and perhaps never will. Because of this absence, I am remembering these events with some melancholy.
   It's perhaps not difficult to see clearly that I have to sometimes be reminded of things that I find sad.

Where are my friends?

A forgotten recollection

   While thinking about how to begin this blog entry, I thought of the proverb "absence makes the heart grow fonder", wondering whether it was true or not. I came to the quick conclusion that it probably is, but only insofar as one is able to really hold the person or thing in mind enough continually to be aware of its' absence.
   Often times for me, it is only by being reminded of the missing object that I am able to remember that I have not seen it for some time. I don't know that it signifies it being any less important for me, but I do know that in the case of the people that I feel really connected to in an emotional way, I am very regularly aware if there has been some void.
   Because I walk around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park so frequently and with such regularity, I have the privilege of seeing the small differences and changes that can occur. The variety and complexity of life there is so wonderful, but the depth and complexity also means that some of the parts can get a bit lost in my sometimes spotty memory.
   Consistency affords me more ways to forget, as well as a unique way to experience.
   An example of things that have been misplaced are my recollections of the the dive-bombing attacks of Brewer's Blackbirds. In past years, these animals nested in two bushes on the eastern side of the lake in the park, and would attack passersby, myself included, as we walked by. It was amusing to watch the birds do this, but I probably enjoyed it most because it helped me to mark the passage of time, as it seemed to occur rather annually. It helped me feel that pleasant memories could be durable and somewhat regular.
   Another nice occurrence that established a sense of continuity was the arrival of American Coots to the lake area. They would begin to come a few at a time, again seemingly annually, and would eventually occupy a large part of the bird life there.
   This year, however, there are only three of this species as far as I can tell, and although I see this trio as sort of trailblazers, and have been there for a while now, I wonder what happened to the rest of those that would normally come. The coots that are there remind me that I had forgotten about them, and also evoke those that are absent.
   It seems that those three individuals, as well as the missing attacks of the Brewer's Blackbirds, point not only to the lapses in my memory, but also to the absences that I wish were more filled in.

Where are the dive-bombers?

Aromas and hazy memories

   There is an area of the walking path that borders Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park that frequently has wonderful fragrances as I walk past it in the early morning hours. At times reminding me of something like cotton candy (or rather the jelly bean flavor of cotton candy), at others, of my paternal grandparents home in Queens, New York. I remember there would be a large bowl out in the living room filled with candies shaped and colored like blackberries and raspberries, whose fragrance would permeate the room.
   There are other occasions at the lake where the smell in this stretch is equally sweet, the scent familiar, though I am unable to locate it in my experience.

   I have no idea what tree or bush it is there that produces these aromas, nor do I really wish to. I so appreciate that the things that I smell often feel like they bypass my brain altogether, imprinting only my olfactory nerve.
   I find it quite beautiful that a thing so commonplace can at times feel so exotic indescribable.

Doesn't look extraordinary, does it?

Led perception

   During my daily excursions to Golden Gate Park, I see many animals, chief among them Canada geese. There are lots of them in and around the walking path surrounding Stow Lake, and although they can be aggressive at times, I enjoy seeing them very much. I feel that since it is their home and I am just a visitor, they're entitled to act pretty much as they please, anyway.
   At times, during my three or four mile walk, I choose a slightly different route, and on occasion veer from the pedestrian path to the car path. I usually find it more tranquil there, and it offers me a different view and experience of the area.
   When I take this other route, I usually step over a curb at the southwestern part of the lake, and as I continue walking, the road begins to slope downward.
   Some time ago, for perhaps a week or so consecutively, I followed this slope, and would see from a distance the object shown in the picture below. It became visible as I turned a corner around some heavy bushes, and although I saw it at closer range at least four or five times, on each occasion I always perceived it first as a Canada goose.
   It seems like my knowledge of it being something else was not sufficient to alter my vision and presuppositions of how I chose to see it.
   It makes me wonder how my vision, ocular and as a world view, can be fooled by a prior ideas that I have about things.

Is the proof in the pudding?

Parkland

   For me, the natural world is most enjoyable when I am either in it alone, or as near to it as possible. I love it when I feel like the animals, trees and me are the only things in the world at that moment; if I knew a way to take it all in without actually being there, that might be ideal.

   As I look at what I just wrote, and think about how feelings of inner quiet and physical place may or may not relate, I question whether I actually mean to refer to being surrounded by trees as being somewhere. At these times, I usually feel like I more within them than around them.

   When I saw this old, hollowed-out tree trunk in the picture below, I found its' dark, shaded interior inviting and warm. It felt like the areas of parkland that I visit and covet the most; parts that seem hidden and unexplored.
   It dawns on me that I may be drawn to such locales because they represent a kind of physical realization of those places within me that feel equally unknowable and concealed. Perhaps this is so, yet if those places are repressed, why should I seek them out externally with such regularity?

   When I am listening to the sounds of birds calling, hearing leaves rustling on their branches, or seeing the clouds moving overhead in the early morning, I can be unaware of my own presence there. At times, I feel like there is nothing coming between us.

Tree tags

   I have been thinking to write about trees with these tags on them for a while. I see them regularly in Golden Gate Park, and my level of interest in exploring them further has oscillated between pretty interested to not-that-interested. Perhaps this lack of fascination has led to me not exploring the question further, and I'm happy with that at this moment.
   I have experienced that knowledge of a thing can rob it of its' mystery for me, and while I very much enjoy information, I find what I don't know to be much more intriguing; it leads me to ponder, and as long as I don't do so too intensely, there is a mystery and beauty in that space between familiarity and enigma.
   I couldn't with good conscience begin writing this blog entry today, after having the idea to write about it more than a month ago, without at least trying to find some information on it. I searched the internet a bit, but could not find the information I was looking for on these things (seen in the picture below), so I just went ahead and began writing on the subject anyway. If I made myself a reminder to ask someone at the park tomorrow about them, I could probably find out what these numbers meant, stamped on what looks like tin and then hammered onto the base of certain trees.
   Instead, I'll just finish writing about them here, publishing it before I have the chance to know differently or why.
   I keep looking for one that will have my birth year on it, as most seem to begin with the numbers "19" on them, but have yet to find it. The one below appears to be the closest so far.

Beautiful and nearly unseen

   On my walks in the Golden Gate Park during the last few weeks I've noticed a Muscovy duck, often sitting at the southeast side of Stow Lake Drive, a place I had never noticed it before. These animals are usually found here quite close to the lake, only seeming to venture further away to feed on grass across the drive. When they do, they move very slowly, and their leisurely treks across the road always frightens me as cars often drive too fast there.
   Perhaps seven or eight days ago, I again saw this duck at the same location, and realized that every time I've seen it (or one that looks just like it) it has been either on, or directly in front of a rock. I had not given this much credence initially, thinking that the animal must simply prefer this spot for some reason or another, or that it wasn't a very intelligent animal and was stupidly wandering near car traffic because they were a bit dim-witted (I have since read that they are in fact rather intelligent).
   I then realized that it must be sitting on an egg.
   This thought came as a surprise to me at first, as I've never seen these ducks with offspring, but then struck me as a bit obvious; I was surprised that this hadn't occurred to me earlier.
   I was moved as I pondered it sitting there. They generally seem to me so relaxed and deep in their thoughts, and even though I had not previously thought of them as being very intelligent, these two beliefs had never occurred to me as contradictory (I have similar thoughts about the bison in the paddock located further west in the park).
   During the last week or so, I have spent some time exploring the area more in depth, and have on two occasions noticed that there were broken eggs located nearby, one on each occasion. I wondered what had happened, and why the eggs had ended up that way.
   It made me sad, but I also felt proud, seeing something valiant in this effort to produce something in what seemed like an area filled with danger.
   Two days ago, while sharing my discovery of the small drama unfolding here with another dedicated walker from the park, I noticed that the duck I had been seeing was actually there to guard a smaller one, a female, who appears to be laying these eggs in an opening in the shrubbery, to the left of the duck in the picture below. I only became aware of this one when she poked her head out for a moment. The fact that they were a couple made the scenario even more beautiful to me, as the duck that I had seen for weeks had obviously taken the job of protecting her and her eggs.    
   There are many newborns in the park right now; Canadian goslings and Great blue heron babies in particular, and many people in the park take pictures and spend their time gazing and talking about them. Among the obviousness of these animals, the trials of this Muscovy duck couple seems to go nearly unnoticed.
   There is something precious to me about my little find; it is like a special secret that only me and perhaps a few others are special enough to be privy to. Although they are a part of the entire continuum of the park and the greater world, I feel like this story-in-process is just for me to. I'm so glad that I looked closely enough to be able to have this experience.

The barking tree

   The other morning, I heard what I thought were dogs barking loudly and aggressively as I took my morning stroll. The noises didn't seem to be too close to my location so were hard to make out, appearing to come from Strawberry Hill, a small island located in the middle of the lake I was walking around.
   As the sounds continued, I changed my assessment, wondering instead if the sounds may actually be from coyotes, which I've seen in the area, Thinking again, I felt like they may in fact be human sounds.
   I've seen people during my walks, usually young, coming from the hill, where they sometimes camp at night. I thought that maybe there was an argument up there, but then surmised that the ruckus didn't quite fit those sounds either.
   The commotion stopped, and so did my thinking about them as I continued on.
   Perhaps ten minutes later, I came upon a tree laying across the water on the south side of the lake, and considered the force of the heavy rains and wind that must have brought it down. I stopped for a moment to look at it, then continued my walk, until perhaps five minutes later, when it dawned on me that I hadn't seen this when I passed the area before. I then remembered the noises of a few minutes earlier, and was awestruck by the thought that this tree had made those sounds. I'm pretty sure that it had.
   Living my life moment by moment but saddled by my own history and presuppositions, I am often certain that I know about the people and things that I encounter. These ideas of mine are often quite rigid; I believe that they are so in order to protect me from what I perceive to be a chaotic and frightening world. They shield me, but from surroundings that are as much ideas as the defenses that they guard against; they are not representations of the real world.
   The realities of my environment, especially when I was a child, were anxiety producing and terrifying, the future unknown and mysterious. As an adult, unfortunately, what is difficult to describe is one of the aspects of life that really make my life feel worthwhile.

Western Snowy Plovers

   I hadn't been out to the beach here in the western part of the city for a while when my friend Jim and I met nearby for a coffee, and took a walk there afterwards. Although slightly warmer than normal for this time of year, the beach was nearly empty (it was a Friday afternoon), save for me, Jim, one or two people jogging, a guy fishing, some Sandpipers, and lots of Western Snowy Plovers.
   I have always been very fond of these birds, primarily because of the way they move and forage, which they usually do in large groups. Although I do not consider myself much of a joiner when it comes to groups (or anything really), I do find watching these animals quite beautiful. I see nothing negative in their group mentality.
   While not all completely moving in unison, large portions of them do, and when the waves of the ocean subside, they quickly scamper to eat up what they fancy before the next waves comes in. These movements always make me smile, and remind me of the opening theme to The Monkees television show from the late sixties, which I loved watching as a child.

Although I've seen this occur perhaps hundreds of times, it always makes me feel better about the world and myself. It adds some brevity to my too often feeling of heaviness, and I find there is something about their seemingly frantic movements that I find comical, heroic and endearing.

Monkeying around